


Nothing can come between us

by Nyx_Naga



Series: Always You [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Supernatural
Genre: Achingly slow in fact. Sorry, Alternate Universe, Angel!Molly, Case Fic, Demon!Moriarty, Demonic Possession, First Kiss, First Time, Friends to Lovers, Hunter AU, Hunter!John, Hunter!Sherlock, Like wow. Very slow., M/M, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Team Free Will, Team free will mentioned, hunter!Lestrade
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-01
Updated: 2015-11-01
Packaged: 2018-04-27 17:05:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,269
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5056765
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nyx_Naga/pseuds/Nyx_Naga
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Hello! Thank you for reading the first chapter of this story! It's also my very first fic so be as reckless as you can be so I can learn and fix my mistakes. It's also not betaed nor brit picked so any and all mistakes you found are mine.</p>
        </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

At first, Sherlock didn't believe in such things. He always thought monsters were fake, that is, until he met one.

It had been on his junkie days, and only thought of the ghost in front of him a hallucination. Then the spirit had picked him up and thrown him across the room, disappearing and reappearing in front of him to grab at him once again, this time by the neck. He fought all he could until he was loosing consciousness, thinking that maybe it wasn't so bad to die after all.

Just before fainting, he could hear the sounds of gunshots and his own body dropping to the ground, a moment of sclience, and then a familiar voice asking him frantically if he was okay. A few minutes had passed until his mind cleared completely, head not swimming anymore from either lack of air nor drugs. When he looked up, he saw Lestrade and scoffed, knowing full well that he was in trouble if the DI had found him.

When Lestrade noticed that Sherlock was up, he quickly rushed over, settling him down with a shush. "Hey! Hey, it's okay, take it easy." When Sherlock was back to laying on the ground he quickly asked, "You alright mate?"

" _Yes_! Yes... I'm... fine. Just had a horrible hallucination." He huffed out a breath that sounded a little like a chuckle.

"Uh, mate. I hate to break it to ya but the ghost was real. If that's what you're talking about." Sherlock looked up at him incredulously and groaned.

"Have you started using also? Is that why you're here? I thought you had finally found a way to track me down and you came looking for me." Sherlock stopped for a second and his expression changed to an amused one. "Still surprised you found this quiet spot too, though-"

" _Sherlock_!" Lestrade interjected before he could ramble on. "I didn't come here for you nor for the drugs. I have not started using and that ghost was why I came here. Hell! I didn't even _know_ you were here! Okay?" The DI sighed. "There have been murders down here and I linked them to this house! I don't know how you didn't know about that, you bloody know everything. Now, you could lay here or you could help me burn her bloody bones!"

Sherlock was shocked, and he must have shown it in his face because Lestrade smiled and stood up, dragging the detective to his feet before he could protest. That's when he first noticed the line of salt around them. "What's the salt for?" He slurred.

Lestrade ignored him. "You have two options: You either stay inside the salt line until I burn her bones, or you come with me as back up and I teach you everything there is to know about monsters once you've sobered up." Lestrade quirked a brow in Sherlock's direction.

"I-I'll go with you." Sherlock said sheepishly, but tried to stay focused as Lestrade handed him a wrench. "What's this for? It's hardly a weapon!"

"It's made of pure iron! If you hit her with it she'll disappear for a few minutes." He held up his shot gun for a moment to demonstrate it. "Salt works the same if you throw it at them, or in this case shoot. But you can also ward them off with a salt line." He pointed at the line before them. "Shall we, then? She's buried in the backyard." Sherlock nodded and they stepped out towards the back of the house, Sherlock keeping guard as Lestrade dug out her grave.

She appeared once, and Sherlock took care of her as Lestrade continued digging, almost done. When he was done digging, she appeared again, taking Sherlock by surprise, but she burned away just as quickly as Lestrade burned her bones.

~~~

The next morning Sherlock woke up in a hospital bed, Lestrade next to his bed on a chair. He grunted and startled the DI, who only smiled. "You're up. Good."

Sherlock simply grunted, frowning at the memory of his dream. "I must have hallucinated on my way here. Thought we were chasing a ghost!" He chuckled.

"Well, you're fairly sober now so I guess you'll believe me."

"Believe what?"

"That it wasn't a hallucination. The ghost was real and we _were hunting_ it."

"Do you _really_ expect me to believe you? I'm not an _idiot_ Lestrade! I know the difference between reality and fantasy. I had expected this from Anderson, or Sargent Donovan, but not from _you_!" His frown was no longer a confused one, but in fact a cold one, filled with rage and a dash of hurt.

"Sherlock! Listen to me! It was all real! The ghost, the salt, the iron wrench! Me digging up her grave and burning her bones while she was attacking you! It was all real!" 

"I never mentioned the wrench. Nor you burning her bones. Then again, I could've mumbled in my sleep." The DI sighed and took out the shotgun from last night, setting it down on Sherlock's legs.

"It's loaded with rock salt. You can check it yourself." Sherlock did, taking out a bullet and inspecting it. _Salt_.  Lestrade took the shotgun and bullet from him. "And I'll let your inability to deduce that I'm telling the truth slide because of the condition you're in."

"Fine. I believe you." The detective said after a while, bitterness in his voice.

"In a couple of hours you'll be discharged. When you get back to your flat call me so I can swing by with all my books and notes. Or you could come to mine, either way works for me." He made to stand up from the chair and moved over to the door, waiting for Sherlock's answer.

"No, I'll-I'll swing by your place. Much easier to have all of your books in their appropriate place instead of my flat. Besides, Mycroft might be listening."

Lestrade smiled, "How considerate of you." And Sherlock scoffed at that.

"Hardly." With that, Lestrade left the room, leaving Sherlock to his thoughts of last night. He had a hard time believing it was true, but that's all he could make out of it since Lestrade had known exactly what had happened. _When you have eliminated the impossible_ , he reminded himself, _whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth._

Hours later, Sherlock had gone to his flat and changed into his usual clothes, then hailed a cab to Lestrade's. When he got there, the DI greeted him on the doorstep at a considerable distance away from him. He then rushed to the kitchen and came back later with some water.

"Drink." He commanded the detective, and, a little wary of the contents of the drink, chugged it down. Sherlock groaned and pulled a face.

"What the _hell_ was that Lestrade?!" But the man in question simply took the glass from him and set it down in the kitchen counter.

"Holy water with salt and iron." He turned back to Sherlock, who had a distasteful and shocked expression. "What? It's completely harmless to us humans. You should know, you're a chemistry grad student!" He came back into the living room and sat down on his chair, Sherlock on the sofa in front of him.

"Do you do this to all your guests?"

"Usually blend it with their tea." Sherlock glared at him, _deducing_ , Lestrade thought, and after a moment he spoke again. "So, ask away. When you've got all, or most, of your questions cleared, we'll hit the books, and then maybe even teach you some tricks you will need." Sherlock nodded, actually being patient for once. "Oh, and, once you're in, there's no way out of being a hunter. You can know all this stuff, but once you start hunting and killing them, you won't be able to back out. Believe me, I've had friends who've tried, hell, even _I_ did, but they always find you, and somehow you get pulled back in again."

Sherlock nodded once again, taking in Lestrade's facial expression. _Grief_. There had always been something about Lestrade he couldn't deduce, and this had been it. He had come to the conclusion that the bags under his eyes; him tensing up into a defensive posture whenever they heard a loud sound; and him always choosing to stand in the corner of a room where you could see all entrances, was the result of a trauma in his life. One that had happened when he was young, and sometimes was reminded of it, but he never deduced what it was. "How did you get in?"

Lestrade looked taken aback. "Um... I, er... My- My uncle." He breathed in through his nose deeply. "He always came by, kept a tab on us at all hours. I found out aboout that later, when he taught me how to hunt... Found his friend killing a wendigo, been hunting ever since. He was... 23? 24? Can't remember, but my father didn't know about it, wasn't much of the big-brother-needs-to-know-everything-about-little-brother type." Lestrade gained a small laugh from Sherlock, which was rare, so he relished in it.

"Big brother is watching..." Added Sherlock, and they both chuckled at that. "Do continue, Lestrade. I find this all rather interesting."

"Not your area of expertise now, is it?"

"It soon will be." Sherlock smirked and Lestrade couldn't help but grunt at that.

"And you'll probably be better than me, too. But anyway. My uncle didn't tell my father either until he got married to my mum. Thought he was a nutter, and eventually stopped seeing him as frequently as he used to. Told mum and I we would only invite him for Christmas and New Year's because he was still family, but only for that." He smiled at the floor, remembering some memory of long ago. Then in a blink, his face turned grim, eyes dark with the new memory. Lestrade drew in a shaky breath, which told Sherlock that this must be the trauma he couldn't quite deduce.

"One night, dad came home from work, like always. Mum and I were setting the table as dad went to the kitchen, and when he came back, he had a knife. He then proceeded to wave his hand, and with that movement, my mum went flying towards the wall, crashing with a yelp... I screamed, and that caught the demon's attention alright, but it also caught my uncle's. He barged through the door and exorcised the demon. When my uncle was done, black smoke came out of my dad's mouth and when it all came out, it caught in flames and they swallowed it. I looked at my uncle and then at my mum, both in awe and relief nobody got hurt. When I looked up again, everything had vanished. No smoke nor flames, and that's all it took for us to believe him. I was 13 back then. Dad became a hunter, mum staying at home to take care of me, but she also knew how to hunt. Suddenly the whole house was filled with hex bags and devil traps. My uncle even got us tattoed." Lestrade took his left sock off and held his heel up for Sherlock to see. The tattoo was what looked to be like the typical representation of a sun, but with a fivepoint star on the centre. _Hidden tattoo, finally saw it._

"It's the anti-possession mark. With it you won't be able to get possessed by demons. You're gonna have to get one too eventually." He put his sock back on and crossed his legs, ready to resume his story.

"My mum left when I was 17." Lestrade continued. "She said that my father was never home, so he didn't need her anymore, and that she had done her job with me. My dad became an alcoholic after that. He also became wreckless when hunting. Killed him in the end, a job with a shapeshifter. My uncle took me under his wing, taught me how to hunt, but he went soon after. Diety. It was a Greek one too, can't remember the name... I took care of her though, it was my first hunt alone." He finished his story with a sad smile, and for the first time, Sherlock didn't know what to say. He knew it had been a trauma, but this was far more than he first thought.

Finally, Lestrade started again. "Got married. She found out about what I used to do and left me. It's okay though," He chuckled. "the P.E. teacher she was with turned out to be a werewolf. I got to shoot him, maybe more times than necessary." Sherlock's eyes widened, and the DI looked at him confused. "What?"

"Never thought you'd be so violent."

"Yeah?" He rubbed a hand through his face. "Well, that's what hunting does to ya."

"Okay." Sherlock nodded, more to himself than to the DI. "And you chose Scotland Yard because you had full access to any deaths, choosing which ones were suspicious. You had full access to any information so long as you said who you were and what you were investigating I presume." Lestrade nodded and Sherlock took that as a cue to continue. "Have I ever helped you in any of those without knowing?" 

"No. Actually, I just kept those to myself. Haven't met another hunter ever since I moved. Told myself I wasn't going to involve anyone, but with your skills, I couldn't help but think that you could make a great hunter. Never thought it would come true though. That reminds me..." Lestrade stood up abruptly and went to his room. Moments later he came back with a bookshelf with wheels. He set it on the wall and turned to the detective. "It's amazing how stuff can become more efficient by putting wheels on it." He grinned. "Okay. Let's start with the basics!" Sherlock stood up and went to stand next to Lestrade. The DI picked out a book and handed it to Sherlock.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! Thank you for reading the first chapter of this story! It's also my very first fic so be as reckless as you can be so I can learn and fix my mistakes. It's also not betaed nor brit picked so any and all mistakes you found are mine.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A Study in Pink, but with a twist.

John woke up in a pool of his own sweat. _Nightmare. Again_. He stood up from his bed and started the shower, as he always did now that he was back in London. But he hadn't wished for the nightmares to become a regular occurrence. Now he had to worry about both his comrades in Afghanistan and his family during dreams, and, as dreams are, they messed with his memories. Sometimes he'd be helping his dad with a huge gash on his leg while there were bullets and vampires coming their way. Other times it'd be a vampire sucking his blood out through his wounded arm. Add in the dream or two where he decapitated his vampiric self or mum to the mix and you'd wonder what hasn't driven him over the edge.

He wondered so too, and now that he had a psychosomatic limp and a trembling hand there wasn't much he could do for the world, he couldn't save lives like he used to. Well, if he was honest with himself, the main reason he went to medical school, when it came down to it, was so his father wouldn't scold him for not hunting with him and Harry, not really to save lives. But he had also used college as an excuse to get away from his old life, and how could his dad deny it to him when he was the one that had always taken care of their wounds when both him and Harry got back from a job?

Then their dad had died. An ambush by the same nest of vampires that had turned their mum and their family into something different and dark. Harry had barely made it out and into their house, not able to get their dad's body out of the alleyway. Then Harry drank. She drank and drank. She'd met Clara and things started looking up for her, but even after Clara had understood her, Harry drove her away. _I need to protect her from our lifestyle Johnny_ , she had argued. _It was your ticket out_ , he had retorted. 

Then John went away, couldn't stand seeing his life get torn apart further as much as he could not stand the feeling of not being able to help on anything. He didn't want to hunt, not after seeing what it had done to his family, both his parents and sister. Besides, he knew that if he started hunting, he'd eventually seek revenge over the vampire's nest, and he knew that was suicide. So what better way to feel useful and suicidal at the same time than enlisting for war? They needed doctors anyway.

But back to the present:

He had his appointment with his psychiatrist. She told him to write on his blog, and the other usual nonsense she always talked about. She asked him again about his past, before the war, but what could he tell her? If he told her the truth she would definitely lock him up and declare him insane. And he was rubbish at lying, so he just avoided it altogether. He didn't blame her though, if he didn't know about what was really lurking in the dark and someone were to tell him without proof, he'd definitely do the same.

When the appointment was done, with a very reluctant note of 'trust issues' from his therapist, he decided to go for a walk around Russell Square Park. The day was lovely, and it got slightly better - or worse, he couldn't tell - when a familiar voice called out to him. 

"John? John Watson?" It was good old Mike Stamford.

~~~

"Bit different from my time." John commented when they walked into a lab at Bart's. Mike had convinced him to meet a man that had apparently said the same thing to him earlier that day: "Who'd want me for a flatmate?"

Mike sat down on a stool in front of a tall man with dark curls that covered most of his face from his sides. "Mike, can I borrow your phone? There's no signal on mine." He suddenly spoke.

"And what's wrong with the landline?" Mike asked the man. 

"I prefer to text." He answered in a voice that somehow suited him.

"Sorry. It's in my coat."

"Er, here, use mine." John offered and the man took it with an "oh, thank you".

"It's an old friend of mine, John Watson." Mike introduced him.

"Afghanistan or Iraq?" The dark-haired man suddenly asked, and John started wondering what he was, well at least subconsciously.

"Sorry?" He asked a little weary. He didn't want to believe his hunter instincts. 

"Which one was it - Afghanistan or Iraq?"

"Afghanistan, sorry how did you - ?" Suddenly a mousy woman came in with a cup of coffee.

"Ah! Molly! Coffee, thank you! What happened to the lipstick?" He asked her as he was handing John back his phone.

"It wasn't working for me." She answered him shyly.

"Really? I thought it was a big improvement! Your mouth's too... small now." He made a gesture with his hand while he sipped at the coffee with the other one.

"Okay..." She breathed and left.

"How do you feel about the violin?"

John looked at Mike before answering. "I'm sorry, what?"

"I play the violin when I'm thinking. Sometimes I don't talk for days on end." He looked at John. "Would that bother you? Potential flatmates should know the worst about each other."

"Oh you - " John looked at Mike once more with understanding in his eyes, " - you told him about me." He hoped that would be it. He didn't want to have a job so early in his return. If he was honest with himself, he didn't want a job at all. But he would have to do what he had to do, no questions asked, if that was the case. He had already narrowed it down to psychic or witch.

"Not a word." Mike said, and that did it. He was definitely one of those two. Too bad he had to kill this handsome - _Yes, handsome. If you're gonna kill him, might as well relish in his beauty. -_ stranger, but he had to do so before he hurt anyone - else? - he wondered.

"Then who said anything about flatmates?" He asked him as the other man dashed about the lab. 

" _I_ did!" He exclaimed cheerfully as he put on his bellstaff. "Told Mike this morning that I must be a difficult man to find a flatmate _for_. Now here he is just after lunch with an old friend, clearly just home from military service in Afghanistan. Wasn’t that difficult a leap."

"How _did_ you know about Afghanistan?"

The man (witch?) ignored him and kept on talking while he put his scarf on. "Got my eye on a nice little place in central London. Together we ought to be able to afford it. We’ll meet there tomorrow evening; seven o’clock. Sorry - gotta dash. I think I left my riding crop in the mortuary." He was about to leave when John spoke again.

"Is that it?" _Riding crop?! In the mortuary?! This definitely smells like witch._

"Is that what?"

"We’ve only just met and we’re gonna go and look at a flat?" He couldn't believe the man.

"Problem?" _Problem?! Really?!_ John smiled incredulously.

"We don’t know a thing about each other; I don’t know where we’re meeting; I don’t even know your _name_."

"I know you’re an Army doctor and you’ve been invalided home from Afghanistan. I know you’ve got a brother who’s worried about you but you won’t go to him for help because you don’t approve of him - possibly because he’s an alcoholic; more likely because he recently walked out on his wife. And I know that your therapist thinks your limp’s psychosomatic - quite correctly, I’m afraid. That’s enough to be going on with, don’t you think?" He opened the door and peeked back into the room towards John to say a few more lines: "The name’s Sherlock Holmes and the address is 221B Baker Street." And then he winked at John. Not even a normal wink, one with a tongue click and everything. "Afternoon."

John turned to look at Mike disbelievingly once Sherlock left. "Yeah, he's always like that." Was all Mike said though, and John didn't know what he was expecting.

When John got home, he took out his phone to see what Sherlock had sent with it.

If brother has green ladder

arrest brother

-SH

That rose a couple more questions about the man in John's head. He stood up and researched Sherlock as much as witches and any abnormal activity around the area that looked suspicious. So far the only thing weird he'd found was those serial suicides, but that looked like a number of other things, not just a witch. After a couple of hours of research, he ruled out Sherlock as just a complete weirdo, but he still had to find out more about the suicides.

 ~~~

The next day, John went to the address Sherlock had given him at the appointed time, simply to find a cab pulling over with Sherlock at the same time.

"Mr. Holmes!" John greeted.

"Sherlock, please." He took out a hand from behind where he had them tucked in for John to shake. They both turned around as soon as an old lady opened the door to greet them. 

"Sherlock!" She exclaimed, and after a brief introduction they went inside and up the stairs to the flat. 

They both looked around for a brief moment before Sherlock started jumping around the flat making halfhearted attempts at cleaning up. When Sherlock stabbed some letters on the small place above the fireplace, John spotted a skull. Sherlock followed his gaze and smiled. 

"Friend of mine! When I say friend..." He trailed off. Mrs. Hudson asked him about the flat, and he answered her kindly, then turned back to Sherlock, who was still dashing about.

"Found your website. 'The Science of Deduction'?" John said as he sat down.

He smiled. "What did you think?" And to be honest, he looked like a small child that had just brought their first gold star home. John pushed away that thought and looked up at the man.

"You said you could identify a software designer by his tie and an airline pilot by his left thumb."

"Yes. And I can read your military career in your face and your leg, and your brother’s drinking habits in your mobile phone."

"How?" If he wasn't a witch nor a psychic, then what was he? _He's definitely human_ , John confirmed to himself. But Sherlock only smiled and turned away towards the window.

"What about these suicides then, Sherlock? I thought that’d be right up your street. Three exactly the same." Mrs. Hudson came out of the kitchen looking at a newspaper, and it puzzled John. Was he with the police? He didn't look like a copper.

"Four." Sherlock corrected while looking out the window. "There’s been a fourth. And there’s something different this time."

"A fourth?" Suddenly there were feet coming up the stairs and a grey-haired man appeared at the entrance. Both him and Sherlock skipped the greetings and went straight to the point.

"Where?" Sherlock asked a bit desperate.

"Brixton, Lauriston Gardens." The grey-haired man answered him and John couldn't make anything from this situation.

"What’s new about this one? You wouldn’t have come to get me if there wasn’t something different."

"You know how they never leave notes?"

"Yeah."

"This one did. Will you come?" Then there was something about an Anderson being on forensics and not working with him. And also something about a police car, and finally the man left when Sherlock accepted to go with a "thank you".

Just before John could react though, Sherlock leapt in the air and John's thoughts on him being like a child returned. "Brilliant! Yes! Ah, four serial suicides, and now a note! Oh, it’s Christmas!" Sherlock then proceeded to dash around the flat and then downstairs. In that time, Mrs. Hudson had asked John if he wanted tea and, niceties be damned, (but if asked, John would've said it was an accident) he had yelled at her. When Sherlock came back, he looked at John curiously. "You're a doctor. In fact, you're an army doctor."

"Yes." John answered the man, a bit confused and stood up.

"Any good?" John could've sworn there was a tiny bit of tease in Sherlock's voice.

"Very good." He answered all the same, no doubt in his voice.

"Seen a lot of injuries, then. Violent deaths."

"Mmm, yes."

"Bit of trouble too, I bet."

"Of course, yes. Enough for a lifetime. Far too much." At that, his brain decided to play the memory of his mum's head rolling away that sunny afternoon. The whole day had felt wrong, too sunny, too happy. He had just killed his mum, but nobody at school had seen him differently, and it felt too wrong, but also right, it was a weird feeling. And he was feeling the same right now, especially after Sherlock had asked him in that teasing voice:

"Wanna see some more?"

"Oh God, yes." They both went down the stairs, John following Sherlock from behind as he called out to Mrs. Hudson upstairs.

"Sorry, Mrs Hudson, I’ll skip the tea - " John stopped short as he noticed something on the ceiling right in front of the exit to the street.

"Both of you?" Mrs. Hudson called out to them and Sherlock answered.

"Impossible suicides? Four of them? There’s no point sitting at home when there’s finally something fun going on!" As Sherlock took Mrs. Hudson by the shoulders and kissed her cheek, John tried to get a closer look at the scribbles on the ceiling, but they weren't scribbles. _Devil's trap. Of course, him of all people had to be a bloody hunter!_ Before Sherlock noticed, John shook his head and turned his gaze back to whatever Mrs. Hudson was saying. He thought that was a conversation for later.

"Look at you, all happy. It’s not decent."

"Who cares about decent?" Sherlock exclaimed as he turned back towards the door and therefore John. "The game, Mrs. Hudson, is on!" 

During the ride to, apparently, a crime scene, Sherlock explained how he had known about Harry and his military past, among other smaller things. But when John told him what he thought about it, he was taken aback by the fact that the brilliant man didn't get much more than a 'Piss off'.

When they got there they were greeted by an annoying woman who kept calling Sherlock a freak, and John couldn't blame her wholly, for he didn't know whether she'd seen Sherlock hunt or not. Of course, he disproved it later when she warned him to stay away, because apparently Sherlock getting off on it was enough of an argument for her to call him a freak. Inside the building though, was waiting the same grey-haired man that had come to the flat earlier, who turned out to be Detective Inspector Lestrade, the man behind the whole investigation. 

They were guided up the stairs to the room where the victim was. Sherlock crouched next to the woman and started looking for clues while John and Lestrade observed from afar. "Well?" Lestrade asked after a few minutes, and Sherlock stood up, grabbing Lestrade and guiding him out of the room. _Smart move, getting out of earshot,_ John thought as he stared at the ceiling, where another devil's trap was painted. He could still hear them though, and Lestrade sounded worried.

"She's a hunter." Sherlock started.

"Are you positive?"

"Yes. She's in her late thirties. Professional person, going by her clothes; I’m guessing something in the media, going by the frankly alarming shade of pink. Travelled from Cardiff today, intending to stay in London for one night, she expected to finish the job today after getting more information. Thought it was a demon, like us, so she planned ahead and painted the devil's trap."

"But it didn't work, so not demon then."

"No but we're missing something. Her case, you don't have it do you?"

"No, there was no case. Is that where you think her weapons are?"

"Think Lestrade! Of course it is! Nobody would look at her twice, especially if she was carrying herself confidently. If you were in her position, where would you put your weapons?"

"Alright! But why do you say she's from Cardiff? You're not making this up are you?" At that moment Sherlock huffed and walked back into the room where the victim and John were. Sherlock pointed angrily at the woman and continued with his deductions:

"Her coat: it’s slightly damp. She’s been in heavy rain in the last few hours. No rain anywhere in London in that time. Under her coat collar is damp, too. She’s turned it up against the wind. She’s got an umbrella in her left-hand pocket but it’s dry and unused: not just wind, strong wind – too strong to use her umbrella. We know from her suitcase that she was intending to stay overnight, so she must have come a decent distance but she can’t have travelled more than two or three hours because her coat still hasn’t dried. So, where has there been heavy rain and strong wind within the radius of that travel time?" He proceeded to take out his phone and checked the weather, showing it to both Lestrade and John. "Cardiff." He stated and John couldn't stop himself before the words came out of his mouth.

"That’s fantastic!" And after looking at the startled faces of both  men and quickly added "Sorry."

"No, it's... Fine." Sherlock managed after a moment, then turned back to Lestrade "I'll go look for the suitcase, see if she had any notes on her person about the serial killer. Inform me if you find who Rachel is or anything else through her contacts." He nodded and dashed off. Lestrade turned to John with confusion written all over his face.

"So, um... Why did he drag you along?"

"I honestly have no clue. I'm John, by the way."

"Greg. And, suppose you don't mind me asking, but who are you to him?"

"I'm his new flatmate, is all. Quick question, where am I? And, where can I get a cab?"

"Oh. Um, okay.... Well, you're in Brixton and you can get a cab on the main road." Lestrade gave him a confused look.

"What?"

"It's just that him making friends, hell, having a flat share, it's not like him. Especially with what he does."

"What, the consulting detective thing, or the hunting thing? Because I'd say both."

"Wait, you're a hunter? So that's why he brought you!"

"No, actually. He has no idea I'm a hunter, so I don't know why he brought me." Lestrade was about to argue, but John cut him off. "He wouldn't have stepped out of the room to tell you those deductions if he'd known I'm a hunter. So, um, thanks for having me? I guess. I have to go."

"Y-Yeah, alright. Guess you're right. See you around then." John nodded in agreement and limped out of the place, setting off towards the main road after a quick word with Donovan. He didn't get a taxi though, instead he was abducted by some kind of government bogeyman and sent off to a warehouse, where a man reclining on an umbrella was waiting. 

"Have a seat, John." Is the first thing the man said after he came out of the car. He was pointing at a black plastic chair, and John didn't take it.

"You know, I've got a phone. I mean, very clever and all that but... you could just phone me, on my phone." 

"When one is avoiding the attention of Sherlock Holmes, one learns to be discreet." The man swirled his umbrella slightly before adding "Hence this place."

"And why would you not want his attention?" John really hoped this man was human, on the other hand he also thought he should stop thinking that every person that he met was a monster. 

"Let's just say that I worry about him, _constantly_ , but sadly, he drove me away. He considers me his arch-enemy. I am simply trying to make him not think that way about me, and also watch out for him."

"And how does that involve me?"

"Well, since you are moving in with him at... " The man took out a leather-bound notebook and read off the address. "...Two hundred and twenty one  _B_ Baker Street," He put the notebook away once he was finished. "I thought you could maybe tell me what he's up to, for a large sum of money, of course."

"Yeah, um, no." At that, the man laughed, and John cringed at the sound slightly.

"You're very loyal,  _very_ quickly. Shall we expect a happy announcement by the end of the week?"

"I'm  _not_ moving in with him because of that. I barely just met him. I'm moving in because of the job he has."

"Consulting detective? That's hardly a job."

"No, hunting."

"Sherlock Holmes is not a man that would hurt a defenseless animal. The most he's ever hunted are serial killers."

"Oh," _Oh..._ "never mind  _that_ , then. I thought he did when I saw the trophy he has in the flat."  _He doesn't know a thing about him being a hunter. Great, I guess it's best if I keep it that way._ "Well, if we're done I'd like to leave now. I'm apparently needed at Baker Street." John held out his phone and waved it. "Sherlock's just texted me to come so goodbye."

"So you won't accept my offer?" The man called as John made for the car.

"Nope." John answered as he got into the back seat. He gave the chauffeur the address to his flat, where he picked up his gun and a few silver and rock salt bullets, and then headed off to Baker Street. When he got there, he was a bit surprised to find Sherlock sprawled over the sofa with his fingers steepled under his chin. John looked out the window wearily, hoping that the black car had left. It had.

"Is something wrong?" The man in the couch suddenly asked.

"Nothing, just met your arch-enemy. Bit of a creep."

"Oh! Did he offer you money?"

"Yes." 

"Did you take it?"

"What?! No! Why would I take it when he doesn't even know what you do?!"

"What? What do you mean he doesn't know?" John sighed.

"Here, stand up." He commanded Sherlock, and the detective obliged. "I'll show you mine if you show me yours." John said as he took off his jacket and jumper. He then proceeded to roll up his shirt's left sleeve to reveal the anti-possession tattoo on his forearm. Once John saw the expression on Sherlock's face, he chuckled. "I showed you, now you show me." He said as he rolled down his sleeve again. Sherlock unbuttoned the next two buttons on his shirt and pulled at it slightly to reveal the left part of his chest where his tattoo was.

"How did I miss that?!" Sherlock started pacing - no - _jumping_ around the flat. "Your expression and stance are clearly from the military, I know the difference; Your hands say doctor, they're steady and clean. No traces of small burns or cuts. Your nails are slightly manicured, clean from blood or powder or salt - "

"Sherlock."

" - and your shoes. The ones you were wearing yesterday are older than the ones you're wearing now, but they're your only pairs. So no hunting after getting back from Afghanistan, then. - "

"Sherlock."

" - But _before_ , how about before? Clearly it was because of a parent. That would also explain your sister's drinking habits, I don't blame her as much now. But why didn't I notice? There would have been clear signs if it were from before. Clouded by the war, sure, but there are some marks that you can't get unless you're a hunter - "

"SHERLOCK!" John was getting impatient now. 

"What?!" He looked slightly startled, but that disappeared once he squared his face again.

"What did you need me here for?" That seemed to do the trick, for Sherlock was once again in his detective mode. He went to the kitchen and came back with a pink case. 

"Oh right, I need to borrow your phone. Can't use mine because it might get recognised." John sighed and gave the detective his phone. As Sherlock sent a text, he turned his attention to the case. It looked like Sherlock had been right, because when John opened it he found a couple of shotguns, rounds of rock salt and silver, and a bunch of knives and daggers, probably for torture, John decided.

"Where'd you find it?" John asked as he rummaged through the case, finding a couple of journals at the bottom.

"Don't think this gets you off of explaining how I missed something so important, and how you knew I was one."

"Fine. I'll tell you over dinner later. Now, care to tell me where you found the case?"

"Oh, it was easy. Found it on the back of an alley, but it was weird because I smelled sulfur." John checked around the case and found a bit of the yellow powder near the handle. He held a bit for Sherlock to see.

"Well you're not wrong about that."

"We're missing something though."

"What?"

"Her _phone_. Where is her phone? I just sent it a text, and if it were here, we would've heard it." At that moment, John's phone rang. "If any person had picked it up, they'd ignore a text like that... But the serial killer... Would panic!" Sherlock finished and abruptly stood up.

"Wait, did you just text a murderer?!"

"Yes! But that's not important, dinner?"

"What - ?"

"Dinner, we're going to wait in a friend's restaurant for our monster, whatever he may be, and hope we smell sulfur. He could even be a man. I love it when it's this clever! There's always something to look forward to!"

"Alright, alright."

They walked - well John limped - down the stairs and out, Sherlock hailed a cab and they were on their way. When they got to the Italian restaurant, they were greeted by a plump man, who turned out to be Angelo, the restaurant owner. "Helped him a few years back by confirming his alibi. He was charged for a triple murder and was going to go to prison had it not been for that." Sherlock explained as they were seated on a spot by the window.

"Jesus!"

"Yes, we'll talk about that later, right now you need to tell me how you knew about me being a hunter. You said dinner, and here we are."

"Right! You set this up didn't you?" Sherlock smiled, but John sighed and cleared his throat. "Saw the devil's trap on the ceiling while you were talking to Mrs. Hudson earlier."

"Okay, that's one down."

"I've only hunted about three times in my whole life. This might be the fourth."

"Then how - "

"How do I know so much? I was the one that stayed behind while dad and Harry went hunting. Taught me everything though. I was the one who patched them up."

"Is that why you became a doctor?"

"Partly, yeah."

"And the military?"

"Can't you deduce it?"

"Is that a challenge?"

"I dunno, it may be." Sherlock could hear the little smirk behind the words, and found himself smirking too. 

"You saw what it did to your family so you didn't want to go down that road. You still wanted to feel useful, so you joined the army. Tell me, was it your mother or father who got turned?"

John chocked a bit on the wine that had just arrived. "Um... Mother. Vampire. My dad got killed by the same nest."

"I'm sorry to hear that."

"You know," John chuckled. "The whole time I've known you, which is not much by the way, you have never apologised or otherwise been nice towards anyone."

"You're right. It hasn't been much time." Sherlock retorted.

"Yeah, okay. I shouldn't be talking I get it." John sighed and Sherlock stared outside through the window located behind John. After a moment, the doctor spoke again. "How about you? What made you a hunter?"

"Huh? Oh, Lestrade. Found him in the middle of a job and helped him. I think it was a ghost... I can't remember. Must've deleted it. He taught me almost everything I know." He answered by looking out the window.

"Okay." John turned around to look out the window also. "What are you looking at?"

"See that cab?" Sherlock pointed and John nodded. "Nobody getting in. Nobody getting out."

"You think that's him?"

"Yes. Come on, let's go." Sherlock stood up and John followed. As soon as they exited the restaurant, the cab started, and so did their chase.

~~~

Later at 221B, a closed door muffled the laughter of two men.

"That was the most ridiculous thing... I have ever done!" John exclaimed after he caught his breath.

"And you invaded Afghanistan." Sherlock countered and both men laughed some more. When their laughter died down, Sherlock informed Mrs. Hudson that, yes, John would indeed be taking the room upstairs, but she avoided the affirmation and asked Sherlock what he'd done. The boys were puzzled by this and decided to go upstairs, only to find the whole flat filled with a small team from Scotland Yard.

"What are you doing?" Sherlock asked a very relaxed Lestrade, who was sitting nonchalantly on Sherlock's chair.

"Well, you told me you'd find the case, but you withheld evidence from us."

"You can’t just break into my flat."

"And you can’t withhold evidence. And I didn’t break into your flat."

Sherlock waved his hands around the place. "Well, what do you call this then?"

"It’s a drugs bust." Lestrade answered with an innocent look on his face, and before John could stop himself, he blurted out.

"Seriously?! This guy, a junkie?! Have you met him?!"

"John..." Was all Sherlock could manage before he bit his lip to stop himself. 

"I’m pretty sure you could search this flat all day, you wouldn’t find anything you could call recreational." John continued though.

"John, you probably want to shut up now." Sherlock was practically begging now. This is not how he'd wanted John to find out. He knew that he had to tell John about it eventually, but he hadn't expected it like this, and so soon.

"Yeah, but come on..." They held each others gaze, silently fighting about the matter, but Sherlock won. "No."

"What?"

"You?"

"Shut up!" And that's the last thing Sherlock said to John before directing to Lestrade. "I’m not your sniffer dog."

"No, Anderson's my sniffer dog." Lestrade nodded towards the kitchen, where more police officers, including Anderson, were.

"What, An - " Sherlock turned around, and was greeted by a sarcastic wave from the man in question. "Anderson, what are you doing here on a drugs bust?"

"Oh, I volunteered." the man sneered.

"They all did." Lestrade commented. "They’re not strictly speaking on the drugs squad, but they’re very keen."

"Is this blood?!" Asked a bewildered Donovan from the kitchen, holding a jar of, as a matter of fact, blood. 

"Put that back!" Sherlock half-shouted.

"It says dead man's blood on the lid!"

"Do as he says Donovan." The DI commanded before he stood up and whispered towards Sherlock. "You should start hiding those things better! What if they found something else? I can't keep on covering for you forever!"

"Don't worry about that Lestrade, I'll be moving in soon, so I think I'll be able to help on that." John offered, and the DI's expression immediately softened into gratitude.

"Thank you. Anyway, back to business. We’ve found Rachel."

"Who is she?" Sherlock urged. 

"Jennifer Wilson’s only daughter."

"Her daughter? Why would she write her daughter’s name? Why?"

"Never mind that." Anderson pointed to the case on the armchair. "We found the case. According to someone, the murderer has the case, and we found it in the hands of our favourite psychopath."

"I’m not a psychopath, Anderson. I’m a high-functioning sociopath. Do your research." Sherlock said as he glared daggers at Anderson, then turned back to Lestrade. "You need to bring Rachel in. You need to question her. I need to question her."

"She’s dead."

"Excellent! How, when and why? Is there a connection? There has to be." Lestrade lowered his voice once again.

"I made a few phone calls to some hunters she knew, apparently she was possessed when she had her. The hunters I contacted told me that they had to kill the baby when it was born. Jennifer Wilson still named the child and grieved her." John grimaced while Sherlock thought it over.

"So, revenge on demons, I get that." Sherlock whispered back. "But, why scratch Rachel on the floor? She's a hunter, she's clever. She's trying to tell us something, it's either a warning or a sign."

"Maybe she's trying to guide us in the right direction?" John asked as he came back with one of the journals he'd found earlier, paging through it. "Not demon?" John added as he got back to the other two.

"But, if it's not a demon what else can it be?" Lestrade asked.

"What if it is a demon, but it's using someone to do the dirty work?" Sherlock added. 

"What do you mean?" John asked as Lestrade guided them downstairs for more privacy. "Demons can't be that clever, can they?"

"Not unless they're under orders." Lestrade answered and both John an Sherlock turned to look at him, puzzled. "What? You _do_ know that there's a hierarchy in hell, where they take orders from their higher-ups."

"But you told me that it was mayhem down there after two idiots opened the gates of hell and killed the famous yellow-eyed demon." Sherlock was still confused, while John was trying to sort out all of this new information. He had been detached from all that while he was in the army.

"That was three years ago, when I was still teaching you. I doubt that there isn't a new demon bossing them around."

"A new _smarter_ demon? Ooh! That's a challenge, I always love those." At that, both John and Lestrade turned to look at the detective. "What? Not good?"

"Bit not good, yeah." John answered and Mrs. Hudson walked over to them.

"There's a cab out front. Did you order it?"

"Nobody ordered a cab Mrs. Hudson. Thank you." Lestrade told her and then turned towards the duo. "By the way, John. Where's your cane?" Sherlock smirked as John's expression changed from confusion to understanding to utter terror and finally to joy - all in under 3 seconds. "Okay, anyway, let's go back upstairs to try and figure out what's the connection to Rachel." John nodded, dumbfounded, and they went back to the flat, Mrs. Hudson behind them. When they entered, Sherlock went straight towards his computer while Lestrade told everyone to pack up.

"I already talked to the cabbie, but he insists that it's here. Are you sure?" Mrs. Hudson insisted.

"Yes! Mrs. Hudson now leave!" Sherlock was getting desperate, but then something hit him and he made a perfect 'O' with his mouth. "She didn’t _lose_ her phone!" He announced. "She never lost it! She _planted_ it on him. When she got out of the car, she realised she was going to her death. She left the phone in order to lead us to her killer." He proceeded to ask John to give him the email address on the tag. The doctor did as he was told, and Sherlock soon had the phone's location, and therefore, the killer.

It appeared in Baker Street, and the hunter trio was baffled. Mrs. Hudson asked them over and over again about the cab, and how it wasn't gonna leave until the cabbie got what he wanted. Meanwhile, Lestrade was arguing with Anderson and Donovan about something stupid while John did his best to convince Mrs. Hudson and the cabbie to leave.

So basically, there was too much noise for Sherlock to concentrate, and it was annoying. He needed to go to his mind palace. "Everybody shut up! Shut up! Don't move; don't speak; don't even blink! Anderson turn around you're putting me off!" Lestrade helped Sherlock with Anderson, and when that was taken care of, he put his hands to his temples. _Who do we trust, even though we don't know them? Who passes unnoticed wherever they go? Who hunts in the middle of a crowd? And why would they be here now? How? How?!! ... Oh...._ "Oh...." Sherlock opened his eyes and turned around, just in time to see the pink phone on the cabbie's hand. Then, a text appeared on his phone: _Come with me_.

"Sherlock? Sherlock, what's wrong?" John asked the detective as he made his way downstairs.

"Nothing. I just... Need some fresh air. Carry on without me." He waved a hand vaguely and disappeared down the staircase. The cabbie was waiting outside for him, leaning on the taxi as relaxed as he could be.

"Taxi for Sherlock Holmes." Jefferson Hope - Sherlock read his tag - said with a natural accent.

"You're the cabbie from earlier."

"Thought you wouldn't recognise me, nobody does."

"Well clearly I did. So what are you? You left sulfur on Jennifer Wilson's case, but devil traps don't affect you."

"Oh no, I didn't dispose of the case, my assistant did. You see, I got a very special deal with a demon is all." Jeff got into the car, and Sherlock followed. "I'll tell you anything you want, so long as you play my game." With that, they drove off to Roland-Kerr Further Education College. The whole ride there, Sherlock asked Jeff some questions, but he wouldn't answer, so Sherlock gave up. The cab stopped, and Jeff guided Sherlock towards one of the buildings and into an unused classroom.

"Shall we talk?" Jeff asked while pulling a chair and sitting on it, and Sherlock followed suit.

"Bit risky, wasn’t it? Took me away under the eye of about half a dozen policemen and two hunters. They’re not _that_ stupid. And Mrs Hudson will remember you."

"You call that a risk? Nah." He reached into one of his pockets and took out a small bottle that contained a pill. " _This_ is a risk. Ooh, I like this bit. ’Cause you don’t get it yet, do you? But you’re about to. I just have to do this." He took out another pill from the other pocket. "You weren’t expecting that, were yer? Ooh, you’re going to love this."

"Love what?"

"Sherlock Holmes. Look at you! Here in the flesh. That website of yours: your fan told me about it, well, my dealer."

"My _fan_?"

"Yeah! You got yourself a fan from hell! Congratulations!"

Sherlock rolled his eyes at the clear sarcasm. "Okay, two bottles. Explain."

Jeff smirked. "There’s a good bottle and a bad bottle. You take the pill from the good bottle, you live; take the pill from the bad bottle, you die."

"Both bottles are of course identical."

"In every way."

"And you know which is which."

"Course _I_ know."

"But I don’t."

"Wouldn’t be a game if _you_ knew. You’re the one who chooses."

"Why should I? I’ve got nothing to go on. What’s in it for me?"

"I haven’t told you the best bit yet. Whatever bottle you choose, I take the pill from the other one - and then, together, we take our medicine. I won’t cheat. It’s your choice. I’ll take whatever pill you don’t. Didn’t expect _that_ , did you, Mr. Holmes?

"This is what you did to the rest of them: you gave them a choice."

"And now I’m giving _you_ one.You take your time. Get yourself together.I want your best game."

"It’s not a _game_. It’s _chance_."

"I’ve played four times. I’m alive. It’s not chance, Mr. Holmes, it’s chess. It’s a game of chess, with one move, and one survivor. And this ... _this_ ... is the move." He slid one of the bottles over to Sherlock, smirking even wider."Did I just give you the good bottle or the bad bottle? You can choose either one." After a while of Sherlock observing in silence, Jeff couldn't take it anymore."You ready yet, Mr. Holmes? Ready to play?"

"Play _what_? It’s a fifty-fifty chance."

"You’re not playing the numbers, you’re playing _me_. Did I just give you the good pill or the bad pill? Is it a bluff? Or a double-bluff? Or a _triple_ -bluff?"

"Still just chance."

"Four people in a row? It’s not just chance."

"Luck."

"It’s genius. I know how people think.I know how people think _I_ think. I can see it all, like a map inside my head. Everyone’s so stupid – even you. Or maybe God just loves me." Sherlock scoffed at the last two.

"Do you really think _God_ \- that is, if he exists - would think anything of you after you've made a deal with a demon?" Sherlock's face lit up. "What was it that you asked for?"

Jeff nodded down at the bottles. "Time to play."

"Oh, I _am_ playing. This is _my_ turn. There’s a photograph of children. The children’s mother has been cut out of the picture. If she’d died, she’d still be there.The photograph’s old but the frame’s new. You think of your children but you don’t get to see them, so estranged father. She took the kids, but you still love them and it _still_ hurts." Sherlock took in some air noisily before continuing."So tell me, what was the deal?"

Jeff shifted uncomfortably on his seat before answering. "He talked to me about it while I drove him around once. I asked him, and he said that he would give me a special deal for it. Made me a proper genius."

"And here I thought you were born with it, pity." Sherlock eyed him, he knew there was something else. "Ah, but there’s more. Your clothes: recently laundered but everything you’re wearing’s at least ... three years old? Keeping up appearances but not planning ahead." That's when it hit him. "Ahh. Three years ago – is that when they told you?

"Told me what?"

"That you’re a dead man walking."

Jeff grimaced, then pointed to his temple. "Aneurysm. Right in here. Any breath could be my last, might as well become a genius. I’ve outlived four people. That’s the most fun you can _h_ _ave_ on aneurysm."

"No. No, there’s something else. You didn’t just kill four people because you’re bitter, or a genius for that matter. Bitterness is a paralytic, but you'd done something more with your genius than this. Love is a much more vicious motivator, though. Somehow this is about your children. What was the special deal?"

"Ohh. You _are_ good, ain’t you? For every life I take, money goes to my kids. The more I kill, the better off they’ll be. You see? It’s nicer than you think. I didn't have to sell my soul."

"What's the name of that demon? No demon does that."

"His is a name no one says, and I’m not gonna say it either. Now, enough chatter." Jeff nodded at the bottles that were momentarily forgotten. "Time to choose."

"What if I don’t choose either? I _could_ just walk out of here."

"You can take your fifty-fifty chance, or I can call my assistant. Funnily enough, no one’s ever gone for that option."

"Did that come with the deal?"

"Yes, to help me with certain tasks." He rocked his head side to side. "Being old and all." Sherlock stood up from his seat and inspected the room.

"So... How _would_ you call him?"

"Oh, he simply comes at my command. Simple." Jeff chuckled. "Why? Do you want a demonstration? You saw the sulfur on the case." Sherlock stopped in front of the window, just in time to see a shadow move. _John_.

"Fine. I'll play your game." The detective stepped back from the window and walked towards Jeff, grabbing the bottle in front of him.

"Oh. Interesting...." He dragged the word, whether in amusement or defeat, Sherlock couldn't tell. "So what do you think?" Jeff made to stand up in front of Sherlock, so Sherlock guided him towards the window. He knew John would have a gun on him, so the pill didn't matter. He, no, _they_ , had won. "Shall we?" Jeff continued. Sherlock uncapped the bottle, taking his time so John would be sure he had a clear shot before firing. " _Really_ , what do you think? Can you beat me? Are you clever enough to bet your life?" Sherlock held the pill up against the light, as if to inspect it. "I bet you get bored, don’t you? I _know_ you do. A man like you _,_ so clever. But what’s the point of being clever if you can’t prove it?"  _Closer..._ "Still the addict. But this"  _Closer...._ "... _this_ is what you’re really addicted to, innit? You’d do anything ... _anything_ at all to stop being bored.You’re not bored now, are you? Innit good?" _There!_ Sherlock got out of the way as the bullet pierced the building and into Jeff, just above his heart. _Perfect._

Sherlock rushed over to Jeff, and decided that it was his last opportunity to get any information out of the man. Sherlock held up his pill. "Was I right? I was, wasn’t I? Did I get it right?" Jeff didn't respond, and to vent, Sherlock hurled the pill across the room. "Okay, tell me this: the demon. Who was it? The one gave you that deal - my ‘fan’. I want a name."

To the best of his ability, Jeff spoke "No."

"You’re dying, but there’s still time to hurt you. Give me a name." Sherlock was running out of patience. He put some pressure on the wound with his foot to prove his point."A _name. Now...._ The _NAME!_ "

" _MORIARTY!_ " Jeff choked out as his last breath and Sherlock repeated it silently to himself.

~~~

Later that night, the flashes of police cars and ambulances were surrounding the college. The hunter trio had reunited and they were talking.

"So demons are asking for something other than souls? Like a bargain?" Lestrade was shocked by this.

"We have to watch out for those kinds of demons. Especially the name Moriarty for now. Have you heard of it before?" John shook his head and Lestrade offered to make some phone calls. Sherlock thanked him and John for the third time that night, and they were starting to get worried about the detective.

"What about my gun? It's kind of illegal, and I just killed someone with it." John asked after a while.

"Oh, don't worry. Mycroft can take care of that." Sherlock answered him.

"Who?"

"My brother. You met him earlier today."

John's face lit up. "Oh! The government bogeyman! He's your brother?!" At that, Sherlock snorted and Lestrade laughed.

"I am definitely calling him that from now on!" Lestrade remarked in between breaths before dissolving into laughter again, along with Sherlock and John.

"We can't giggle!" Sherlock mocked. "It's a crime scene!" But that only set off the trio again. After a while, Lestrade was called back, so they parted, leaving the boys alone. "Dinner?" Sherlock offered with a grin on his face.

"Starving!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 07/15/16 Edited these chapters. Hopefully I won't give up on this story again and actually finish it. I'm thinking of finishing the thing and posting it all in one go. It'll take a while though, hopefully around the same time or even before s4 airs.


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